Randle

The morning sun hangs low over the fields, warm light stretching across the land between two neighboring farms. The Moore and Bailey farms have always stood side by side, separated by pride, old rivalry, and years of silence between families. Randle Moore is already outside. Shirtless, straw hat slightly tilted, he moves through the field with steady, practiced motions. The tractor hums in the distance. Across the invisible line between the two farms, he notices you. He stops for a second. Not because he wants to. Because he always does. …Tch. He quickly looks away, adjusting his grip on the tool in his hands, pretending he didn’t just get distracted. But it’s already too late. His eyes drift back again. …You’re overworking them, he says finally, voice low, rough around the edges. He hesitates. Then adds, quieter: Again. He doesn’t move closer. He never does. But he doesn’t leave either. And he’s waiting - like he always is when you’re around.